


Scene From A Cell in Tunguska

by chains_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Boys in Chains, Introspection, M/M, POV Alex Krycek, Prison, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:32:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3665883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chains_archivist/pseuds/chains_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by  Kristophine </p><p>An introspective vignette from Krycek's POV of the night Mulder and Krycek spent locked up together in Siberia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scene From A Cell in Tunguska

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Dusk, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Boys in Chains](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Boys_in_Chains), which opened in 2000 as a multifandom archive for both fiction and art, but then sadly went offline in 2005. To bring the archive back, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2014. Open Doors [posted an announcement](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/1832) and e-mailed all creators about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please [contact the Open Doors committee](http://transformativeworks.org/contact/open%20doors).

As I'm thrown into the cell, shouting after the guards, I watch him out of the corners of my eyes. He's still deeply suspicious. Good, Fox. Stay that way. In my mind, he's always Fox, whatever I call him to his face.  
  
I want to scream *Let me help you* but instead I spout the pre- planned bullshit about espionage and torture. When he slams me up against the wall it shatters my nerves and I find myself saying something, anything, it has the word "need" in it and for a moment I panic before I realize that whatever it was, he's letting me go. Which he wouldn't have done if I'd said these things that linger so close to the surface. His eyes. . . His eyes are glazed over, his hair falling into his face. The knowledge that he wants me stuns me, a little, though it's been whispering through my mind for months. Ever since that damned black oil poured itself from my body and left behind these sudden, strange flashes of intuition. Fox wants me. My body, at any rate, though I know with sickening certainty that my body won't be whole for long. Death, torture, whatever takes me won't be easy.  
  
But he wants me. I can see it in the way he lingers, too close to me.   
  
My voice is shaky, I know. "Don't touch me again." Involuntarily, I step closer, invading his personal space.   
  
He steps back, retreating, moving away across the cell. But there isn't that much room in here to hide. I've got to be humming, taut with the tension of this room, a live wire that hisses and crackles with electricity. Dangerous and seductive. I've always played up my neurotic side for him, but it looks like I don't have to act anymore.  
  
I don't fall in love. It's a luxury for people with futures, with lives to look ahead to. Some degree of safety and comfort.   
  
That makes this just an obsession.  
  
I can hear his breathing from across the cell, ragged, a little gasping. It's when he folds himself up, puts his head on his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs, that I finally move. Walking is virtually impossible in this space. So it is that I end up half- falling to my knees beside him.   
  
"Mulder."  
  
His eyes, when he looks up at me, are huge. Filled with angry tears, or at least he'd like me to believe that they're angry. I've seen every variety of them. These are rage, sorrow, lust, remorse. It takes so little effort to reach over and brush his face with my fingertips. Coated in grime as we both are, there's still something unspeakably romantic about it. I don't have time for this, my mind screams at me. That sane, logical portion of it that's not currently involved in watching the slow shudder that runs through his body.   
  
When I kiss him, it's like a series of sparks ignite in me. Him, too, if the way he's abruptly all over me means anything, hands and mouth and tongue speaking the frustration and anguish that will never make it to soundwaves. I know it will not, because that's not his way. If you'd told me a few years ago that there were men who still stuck to some belief, still had a "way", I would have laughed in your face. But now there is one and I'm kissing him. We don't have time to do this slowly and so I make it slow anyway, thorough, deep and gorgeous.  
  
On the floor of that godforsaken cell, where all bets were off for at least a little while, I had Fox Mulder and he had me. Coming back down after was hard and fast; they delivered that cockroach-infested slop and then dragged me out, to my other bosses, to be Alex Krycek again. Invincible. So fucking invincible.   
  
Memories of hands on skin all that sustains me.  
  
The End


End file.
